


The Adventure Of The District Messenger (1899)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [177]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 19:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11607756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A minor case at first sight, but with its own points of interest as it showed yet another large organization whose management did not care about any 'collateral damage' in covering up its misdeeds.





	The Adventure Of The District Messenger (1899)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessgolux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'Wilson, the district messenger, whom I had previously helped'. With the advent of the dreaded telephone, the post of district messenger is another which is fading into history (and yes, it does make me feel old!). It was - and still is, in remoter parts of the Three Kingdoms - a local Post Office manager in charge of dispatching telegrams through a network of small boys.

Although the man who I love more than life itself is possessed of a decidedly unusual first name – as I once explained, his name meant 'fair hair', rather amusing considering the dark bird's nest of a mess that sits atop his head - I must admit to a fondness for traditional British names when it comes to children. So quite what the parents of Mr. Ptolemy Seleucus Antiochus Wilson had been thinking when they had named him, only they and the Good Lord knew! It might be imagined that with a name like that, they had hoped he might be destined for a career as an archivist or historian, but although he did develop an interest in such things, he ended up instead as the district messenger covering the Baker Street area. And it was his misadventure, which came about through no fault of his own, that formed our next case.

The district messenger at least looked the part of someone who had mistakenly wandered out of the British Museum, being small of stature with thinning black hair (despite being only twenty-nine years of age) and a permanently worried expression. Although on that particular day in Baker Street, he had good cause. Indeed, we would not even have known of his troubles had it not been for one of his boys, Cartwright, who on delivering a telegram to Sherlock, had told him about his superior's dismissal. The idea that a man like Wilson could have done anything to warrant such a sanction had seemed utter folly to us both, and Sherlock had invited him round to discuss the matter.

“I honestly have no idea, sirs”, the fellow said, taking off his glasses and polishing them yet again. “A week last Monday, it was. I came in as normal and Mr. Greene, the area manager, had come round on one of his Visitations. He gave me my cards and told me to hop it.”

Sherlock frowned.

“And he did not even offer the courtesy of an explanation?” he asked. We both knew that poor Wilson had a difficult enough life at home, what with his parents having died just over a year ago leaving him to somehow raise two teenage step-brothers (which probably explained the thinning hair). And he had himself married recently, with his first child on the way. The man shook his head.

“No reason, sir”, he said mournfully. “He had two men with him, and they escorted me off the premises. It was shameful, sir.”

I saw my friend's face darken, and knew that someone, somewhere, was soon to face justice for the actions against our friend. Good.

“Let us consider matters, Wilson”, Sherlock said evenly. “First, when did this personage called Mr. Greene last disgrace your office with his baleful presence?”

“Only the Thursday before, sir”, Wilson said. “He runs four offices, so we rarely see – saw him.”

“That is good”, Sherlock smiled. “Obviously, had he wished to dismiss you at _that_ time, he would have done so then. We may therefore make the reasonable assumption that you committed some act, however unknowing, between his departure on that day and his return the following Monday. You worked Fridays and Saturdays, I recall, so I need to know what you did on those days. In particular, anything that was out of the ordinary.”

“Mostly I just stay in the office, sir, and monitor the boys”, Wilson said. “Some of them are right scallywags if you don't keep them in order, but they're all good at heart, really. I went out twice – no, I tell a lie, three times – and my deputy Mr. Groves covered for me each time.”

“What is he like, this Mr. Groves?” Sherlock asked. The messenger reddened.

“We do not always get on”, he admitted. “He expected to be made manager three years back when old Mr. Foxworth retired, and he was not pleased when they chose me instead. He said I was too young; he is just past fifty, you see.”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “I shall be making some inquiries into him. In the meantime, I need details of the three times that you went out.”

The man nodded.

“The first one was lunchtime on Friday”, he said. “I takes my lunch as and when I can get it, sir, and there was an urgent message for a Mrs. Weybridge in Melcombe Street. I didn't read it, of course.”

“Of course not”, Sherlock agreed. “Were there any problems?”

The man shook his head.

“A snooty footman took the message up to the lady, and came back after about five minutes”, he said. “There was no reply. He gave me the bare minimum tip and turned his back on me. Some people – and their servants, for that matter – are like that these days. The missus says that it's like dogs; a bad owner makes a bad servant.”

“Very true", Sherlock said. "What next?”

“That afternoon, about three, I had to go out and see a Mr. Smith in Chiltern Street”, he said, wrinkling his nose. “One of those gentlemen who must have taken a bath in that _eau de cologne_ ; I felt ill just standing hear him. He was moaning about one of the boys cutting across his flower-beds to deliver a message, though when he went and showed me, I didn't see any footprints.”

I saw Sherlock's eyes narrow, and I could see the implication. Mr. Wilson had been out of the office for something other than a delivery, leaving Mr. Groves in charge. Had his deputy done something in his absence?

“The third time was Saturday morning, sir”, Wilson continued. “I had a telegram for an industrial premises in Chagford Street. We'd had a rush on and were a couple of boys short, so I decided to take it myself, 'specially as it was marked 'urgent'.”

“What sort of factory?” Sherlock asked. 

“Don't rightly know, sirs”, Wilson admitted. “I entered the place, and some fellow snatched the message off me, read it, said 'no reply' and all but threw me out the bloody door with no tip. Uh, begging your pardon, sirs.”

He had blushed at the mild profanity. I could have told him that I often heard – and said – much worse, especially when Sherlock and I....

Not the time! So not the time! And _someone_ could stop with the smirking!

“I have one final question”, Sherlock said. “If you had a straight choice, would you prefer to go back to your old job, or would you seek work elsewhere?”

“Definitely elsewhere, sirs”, Wilson said fervently. “But without a reference, I doubt I'll get much. Unless there's some unfussy stamp-historian looking for a paid assistant, and they don't exactly grow on trees!”

“Well, we shall see if such a job suddenly sprouts from the London pavements”, Sherlock said. “Stranger things have happened, in my experience. I presume that you and your good lady wife still have your late parents' house in Playfair Street, over Marylebone way?”

“Yes, sir. This'll be a worry for her, what with her expecting.”

“I promise that I shall be in contact once I have news”, Sherlock smiled. "Hopefully quite soon."

+~+~+

“Why would they sack him without a reason?” I wondered, after the man had left. Sherlock had insisted on giving him an envelope with several notes in it 'to tide things over', which was so like him.

“I sense that his unwelcoming factory folk have the answer”, Sherlock said, rising and crossing to the writing-desk. “I have two telegrams to write, so if you do not mind waiting, we shall have our delayed walk later and send them then.”

“Of course I will wait for you”, I smiled.

“And when we come back, we shall have sex with me wearing the glasses.”

Holy Mother of God, how could he just come out and say things like that? And then have the rank indecency to smirk about it!

+~+~+

I cuddled closer to the human heater in front of me, and sighed happily. Even if certain body parts were no longer on speaking terms with me, I was supremely happy.

“Who were the telegrams to?” I asked, nuzzling the back of his neck. He growled appreciatively before answering.

“One was to Queen Molly”, he said. “I would like a sample of what that factory is producing, and her people will be able to obtain one for me.”

I was of course still in awe (if not terror) towards the Queen of the Mendicants, whom we had had cause to meet again recently on a small case, although I had definitely caught her simpering at Sherlock as we had left. Honestly, he was not safe to be let out!

“And the other?” I asked.

“John, your hand!” he warned. I tweaked his nipple and earnt myself a most satisfactory squeak before he batted me away.

“A friend of mine who works for the government”, he said. “He will have access to all the museum staff lists, and hopefully be able to find something for poor Wilson. The man must eat, let alone the fact that he has two hungry step-brothers to raise, and his own first-born on the way. And teenage boys think of nothing but food!”

I grinned.

“I may be some way from being a teenage boy”, I said, “but I can think of one other thing that they think of quite a lot.”

“Stamp-collecting?” Sherlock asked innocently.

I rolled onto my back and pulled him on top of me. I do not know how he managed it, but all that muscle weighed very little. Maybe it was the love.

“I love you”, I said. “And I am so lucky to have you.”

“I know”, he said.

I scowled at him, but held him anyway. I was a good 'husband'. And not the other thing, the one starting with the twenty-third letter of the alphabet that rhymed with 'knife'.

And why did I have to end up with someone who had such a damnably annoying smirk?

+~+~+

I stared in surprise at the item that had come that morning for Sherlock. I was not sure what I had been expecting the factory to be producing, but this was not it.

“A letter?” I asked dubiously.

“A letter worth several hundred pounds, if not over a thousand”, he said.

I stared at it. Apart from looking some decades old, I did not see how an envelope – and clearly it was empty – that had been sent to a Mr. Chewton Adams Esquire at Cherry-Tree Cottage, Wellow in the county of Somersetshire, was the least bit valuable.

“I contacted Mr. Edwin Jones, for whom we solved the Wisteria Lodge case”, Sherlock said. “He was most helpful. The key is the stamp, a Penny Black.”

“But they must have made millions of those”, I objected.

“Some way in excess of sixty-eight million according to Mr. Jones”, he said. “Were it for that alone, then it would be but a few pounds at best. But the postmark makes the difference.”

I looked at said mark.

“'June 3rd, 1840'”, I read. I could not immediately think of anything of import from that year. “So?”

He smiled knowingly. 

“The stamps were not meant to go on sale until the _sixth_ of that month”, he explained. “Hence any stamp that was marked before that date has great value.”

“But the factory cannot have been making these”, I said.

He just looked at me.

“Consider for a moment”, he said. “Sixty-eight million stamps, and the demand for pre-dated letters is astronomical. Suppose that someone claimed to have acquired, say, a batch of ten of these letters. They auction them off quite legally, then when it comes to it, everyone who applied is told that they are amongst the ten successful bidders, and that once they send in their cheques or bring the cash to a certain London address, a letter would be theirs. The fraudsters would then be able to flee the country with a huge amount of money before a hue and cry would be raised for their capture.”

I frowned.

“But this does not explain why poor Wilson was sacked”, I said.

“I am rather afraid that it does”, Sherlock said. “And worse, the implications thereof. Fortunately I am expecting a guest here this afternoon who will be able to clear the whole matter up, even if he will be most unwelcome. And some other good news; my government contact has moved with unusual speed – the hint that I dropped to Bacchus about the under-housemaid and the coal-house obviously hit home – and I have been informed that a vacancy will be arising in the historical documents section at the Victoria and Albert Museum, two months hence. The job is as good as Wilson's.”

“But he has no reference”, I pointed out. 

“He will have!” Sherlock smiled. 

And the bastard would say no more. Even for the promise of sex, damn him!

+~+~+

Before our visitor arrived, Sherlock gave me a somewhat strange set of instructions, although of course I agreed to follow them. It was about half-past two when we heard a heavy tread on the stairs outside, and then Mrs. Harvelle entered to announce 'Mr. Edgar Norwich'. The man was clearly of noble blood, if only because of the way he looked down his nose at both of us.

“You requested to see me, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, looking pityingly around our room. I silently hoped that this was one fellow heading for a fall, as I disliked him already.

“I did”, Sherlock said. “You do not have to stay if you do not want to, sir, but I can guarantee that if you leave, you will not like the events that will occur during the rest of today. Or thereafter.”

The man looked uncertainly at him, but sat down on the couch (presumably his ego was too large for the fireside chair).

“I thought it only fair to tell you”, Sherlock began, “that I have been engaged by a client to investigate a case regarding a man who was unfairly dismissed from the General Post Office. An organization for which you, under your noble cousin, are Deputy Postmaster General.”

“If he was, as you say, unfairly dismissed”, our visitor sniffed, “then he can take it up with the courts.”

“As I am sure you are aware, he has not the money”, Sherlock smiled. “Unfortunately for you and your continued employment, he has something rather better. Me.”

Our guest just looked disdainfully at him.

“It was poor Mr. Ptolemy Wilson's grave misfortune”, Sherlock went on, “to deliver the wrong message, to the wrong place, at the wrong time. Although he had no way of knowing it – and indeed, he himself was no danger to the men in that factory – he accidentally stumbled into one of the best forgery operations that I have seen for some considerable time. And in my line of business, that is quite an accolade.”

“Indeed?” There came the looking down the nose again.

“Yes”, Sherlock smiled. “A factory producing fake letters with pre-issue Penny Blacks on them. Thousands of them. It is situated in Chagford Street.”

There. Definitely a flicker of alarm before the man regained his composure.

“Is it?” he asked dryly. “How very interesting.”

“Well, I should say that it 'is'”, Sherlock said, looking at his watch. “Although perhaps I may soon have to amend that to 'it was'. Naturally I passed on full details of this terrible example of lawbreaking to my good friend Sergeant Baldur, who said that he will organize some men to mount a raid on the place.”

“I rather think that you have been wasting my time, sir”, our guest said loftily. “I am leaving.”

He stood to go and turned to the door, only to find me there holding my gun. He went deathly pale. 

“The most interesting thing about that factory”, Sherlock said, “was what I had confirmed about it only a few hours ago. Most incredibly, it is registered in the name of your cousin, the Duke of Norfolk and Postmaster General.”

“So?” our guest said, clearly eyeing up the possibility of a run for the door. I shook my head warningly at him, and my finger tightened on the trigger. 

“A quick check of the papers showed me that His Grace was out of the country on the day that the papers were signed”, Sherlock said. “Now, I know that the reach of the _law_ is long, but I do not think that your cousin's arms can stretch all the way from Paris to London.”

The man slumped back into his chair. There was a most timely knock at the door, and I opened it to reveal the familiar figure of Sergeant Baldur.

“If it were not the case that I know you cousin to be ill at this time”, Sherlock said darkly, “then I would have no compunction about throwing you in jail and 'losing', the key. But I happen to esteem him as a human being, and for his sake, you are to be offered a way out.”

Sherlock toyed with his own gun on the table. The man stared at him in horror.

“I thought of that, too”, Sherlock smiled, “but frankly, I would not trust you with a weapon. Sergeant Baldur here, who has four constables waiting downstairs, will escort you to your house. You will be granted a short time to collect your valuables – two armed policemen will remain with you at all times, so do not think of trying anything - and you will then be taken to the docks where the _“St. Lucia”_ is sailing for the Cape this evening. First, however, you will sign this confession, clearing Mr. Ptolemy Wilson and taking all the blame upon yourself. Although I will use it in a private capacity, I shall not produce it in public until after the duke's passing, as he should be spared the shame of being of the same stock as something like _you!_ ”

The man glared at him, but he knew that he was defeated. He staggered to the table and signed the document there without even bothering to read it, then lurched out of the door with the sergeant close behind. It was a marked contrast from his proud and disdainful entrance only moments before.

“Poor Duke Henry”, Sherlock sighed. “He is one of the greatest philanthropists that this country has been blest with, and I truly admire his work for his fellow Catholics. Evidently something rotten managed to get into the branch of the family tree that produced his cousin.”

“You could not have done anything else”, I said comfortingly. “Wilson will be happy with his new post. But how will he get his reference if you cannot produce this paper?”

“I shall ask Miss Bradbury to help with that”, Sherlock said. “She will be able to approach his prospective employers with this confession, and they will understand why it cannot yet be made public. And I will make sure that the job comes with a house, and that employment is found for his sons. It is strange, is it not? The duke has so much and Wilson so little, and yet they are both truly good men, each doing what they can with what they have for the betterment of society.”

I went across and pulled him upright, leading him to the couch where I held him. The fire crackled before us, and he nestled into me, sighing happily.

“We could go out for dinner?” he suggested. “It is a pleasant evening, and it does not get dark till late now.”

I shook my head.

“I have a better idea”, I said. “We shall stay home like an old married couple, and I shall send down to Mrs. Singer for one of those bacon suppers that you love so much.”

He chuckled.

“I knew that there was a reason that I kept you around”, he said. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“Do I need to remind you further before supper?” I teased.

He pulled himself up, and was stripping off as he headed for my bedroom.

“Do you have to ask?” he threw over his shoulder.

+~+~+

Reader, I did not have to ask. After all, I believed in action, not words!

+~+~+

Next time, what starts out with two acquaintances of ours and some irregular furniture ends with a hastily-opened door and blood on a railway station platform.

**Author's Note:**

> Because several of my readers subsequently asked, I will add at this point that Mr. Wilson's brothers were Mr. Lysander Theseus Pericles Wilson (whom would later provide us with one of our most famous cases) and Mr. Caesar Augustus Trajan Wilson. The Wilson parents had a lot to answer for!


End file.
